


Unwrapped

by Steals_Thyme (Liodain)



Category: Watchmen - All Media Types
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Kink Meme, M/M, My First Fanfic, Pre-Roche, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-04-14
Updated: 2009-04-14
Packaged: 2017-10-03 02:07:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liodain/pseuds/Steals_Thyme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thin slivers of light unravel across the horizon, staining the sky a sickly yellow between bruises of cloud.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unwrapped

**Author's Note:**

> My first evar fanfic, fwiw.

Thin slivers of light unravel across the horizon, staining the sky a sickly yellow between bruises of cloud. Nite Owl props himself up in a dilapidated doorway, right arm cradled in front of him, and watches the dawn break through an icy billow of his own respiration. The cold air hurts his lungs as he gulps down deep breaths. It's been a long winter night, and the adrenaline high that has been a constant is beginning to dissipate. He hates this time of year. The cold makes everything ache.

There is a wet crunching noise, and a knot top slumps to the ground a few feet away. Rorschach gives the prone figure a token boot in the ribs, and the thug curls around itself like a swatted insect.

"Daniel," his partner says. It's a question.

"Shoulder's dislocated," he responds. "Anterior. Hurts like hell."

Rorschach approaches him, and Dan winces as he is brusquely hauled away from the wall and his cape tugged aside. Leather-clad fingers explore his back, probing his shoulder blade.

Rorschach makes a noise in the back of his throat. "Lie down. Less painful that way."

Dan surveys the immediate area. Upturned garbage cans, their putrid contents strewn across the alleyway. Viscous spatters of blood across cracked paving. Unconscious thugs. He grimaces. "I can take it."

Without preamble, Rorschach grasps Dan's elbow and moves it towards his partner's chest, then rotates it steadily outward. The joint slips back into place with a sickening pop, and Dan sees black spots dance in front of his eyes. His fingertips tingle. He doubles over to disgorge his stomach contents across the alley brickwork.

It takes a moment or two for the pulsing lights to clear from the periphery of his vision, and when Dan looks up, Rorschach is sitting halfway up the first flight of a nearby fire escape.

"Better?" Rorschach asks, in what Dan recognizes as his conversational tone. It's very similar to his "I'm about to hurt you" tone, but Dan has learned to pick up the subtle nuances over the years.

Dan hawks and spits, wipes his mouth on his cape and to tries to ignore the vomit clogging his sinuses. "Yes. Thank you." He takes a seat a few steps down from Rorschach, who's two-tone visage dances in patterns that almost construe amusement.

"Hey, at least I didn't scream. Or pass out," Dan scowls defensively, pulling off his goggles. "Though maybe a warning next time so I can brace myself, huh?" Rorschach only makes a guttural noise and reaches into his trench coat pocket for a couple of wrapped sugar cubes. He tosses one to Dan, who completely fails to catch it left handed.

"Keep your energy up," Rorschach says as Dan scoops up the cube from the metal stair. "Sugar works fine." The mask is peeled up and away from his mouth, and there is crunching.

Dan fumbles impotently. His aching right hand rests in his lap while he focuses, trying to summon the manual dexterity to unwrap the sugar with his left. His gloves don't help, they're too cumbersome for the tiny movements required, yet he can't quite find the motivation to take them off. Besides, it's fucking cold. He makes a noise of frustration; easier to pick up a needle while wearing boxing gloves.

The sugar cube bounces off the step and lands in the alley below.

Rorschach reaches into his pockets and produces another without a word. He begins to unwrap it methodically, like something learned by rote, but stops as Dan makes a critical little noise. Rorschach regards his own gloves momentarily, grime and blood ingrained in the cracked leather, and nods in understanding. His hands aren't much cleaner though. He flicks the unwrapped cube into Dan's palm, who promptly drops it _en route_ to his mouth.

"Jesus," Daniel mutters, irrationally bothered by the loss of another sugar cube. Shoulders slumped, teeth beginning to chatter. His hands are trembling, all adrenaline has fled and post-battle fatigue has set in. His limbs feel like overcooked spaghetti and it's taking real effort to keep his head up, so he doesn't bother. "It's been a long night."

Shuffling noises, and something bumps against his mouth. The rough edges of a sugar cube are thrust between his slack lips. Dan jerks his head back reflexively, blinking as he processes this strange occurrence. Rorschach makes an agitated noise, and grabs Dan's face with a freckled hand, applying pressure to force his mouth open.

Dan can only manage an indignant snort before Rorschach shoves the sugar cube into his mouth, and then he doesn't quite know what kind of noise to make, because Rorschach's fingers are in his mouth and they taste like copper pennies and oh God he must be delirious from exhaustion, because that was a red-hot stab of arousal just there and his cheeks must be flushed and what will he say if Rorschach asks him what's wrong, and—

And Rorschach's fingers are still in his mouth.

Dan risks a glance at his partner. The mask is rolled over his nose, revealing a familiar sharp, stubbled chin and narrow lips – lips that are slightly parted, and moistened with a brief flicker of pink tongue. His breathing is measured; carefully controlled.

Suppressing a groan, Dan reaches for Rorschach's wrist and starts to slide the fingers from his mouth. Impulsively, he runs his tongue over Rorschach's fingertip, tracing the whorls and loops and memorizing the bitter taste of the man's skin.

Too much.

Rorschach jerks his hand back with a guttural noise, clipping Dan sharply across the nose in his haste to get away. The mask is yanked down, shoulders hunched, and he vaults over the fire escape handrail to stalk down the alleyway.

"Go home, Daniel," his voice echoes off the graffitied walls, metal on grindstone.

Sugar melts on Dan's tongue.


End file.
